


And We Chase the Shadow of the Mountain

by dandelion_weed



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, F/M, Gen, M/M, Post-Hobbit, Post-Lord of the Rings, Radagast is important okay, slay me, why did i ever think this was a good idea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 19:54:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4072522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandelion_weed/pseuds/dandelion_weed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were two versions of the Red Book: the bedtime story for children, and the tragic love story between a king and a burglar. Samwise may know of the blue book he hid under his bed, but if he did, then he certainly never made a sign to confirm it. Bilbo treasured the book (journal, really) and guarded it as jealously as a dragon would his horde. It was the rarest of story, the truth of truth, and the only one with knowledge of it alive was him, Bilbo Gamgee, unremarkable son of Samwise the Brave</p><p>-</p><p>When Thorin became King Under the Mountain, it was accompanied by grief and sorrow. There was no fanfare and festivities, only tears and blood as he said his oath and the stained crown bestowed upon him. War was knocking on their doorstep, there were far too many deaths, and the world was ending. But dwarrows were nothing if not obstinate. </p><p>Thorin took the mantle, charged into the battle with King Bard II, and came out victorious. It was as legendary as his namesake's last battle, but the reason Thorin Oakenshield's had not been glorious as it was supposed to be was only whispered behind the closed doors of the royal family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And We Chase the Shadow of the Mountain

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a noob omg how do I Italics? Someone tell me.

The year was 1483 by Shire reckoning, and Bilbo Gamgee, also known with the last name Gardner, set out of Hobbiton at the age of five and forty, four months after the news of his father’s departure to the Undying Land reached his doorstep.

There was a plan, and then there was wanderlust, that drove him out of the magnificent smial that once belonged to his namesake. It may be because of the queer wizard that promised him answers, and it may also be because his heart was restless after hearing countless retelling of Bilbo Baggins’s various heroic deeds as a child, and even as an adult when the mood strike his father. Let it never be said that Samwise Gamgee was not an avid admirer of both the Bagginses that once lived in Bag End.

“They’re radiant, my boy,” Samwise once said humbly while smoking some Old Toby. “You just can’t help but to be in awe of them. Now, Mister Frodo was as magnificent as the Elves themselves, with his wise words and even wiser appearance, though he didn’t look a day older than a hobbit who just came of age when he was fifty years old. But Mister Bilbo, there’s a shine to him that makes you say, ‘Oh, now there’s a hero of legend.’ Though nobody quite remember what he did for Erebor. The dwarves would have never reclaimed their mountain, not in a thousand years, no, if not for Mister Bilbo Baggins. The dwarves remember, yes, but do the world? Does the tale of Bilbo Baggins, who single-handedly recovered the Company of Thorin Oakenshield from countless deadly situation being told from lips to lips, written down in tomes that could last for ages? No, Bil, the world remembers a king with fire as ever burning as the forge of dwarves, and strong as mithril but with an oaken branch to stand against the mightiest of the orcs. That’s what the world wants to remember.”

Bilbo also knew there were two versions of the Red Book: the bedtime story for children, and the tragic love story between a king and a burglar. Samwise may know of the blue book he hid under his bed, but if he did, then he certainly never made a sign to confirm it. Bilbo treasured the book (journal, really) and guarded it as jealously as a dragon would his horde. It was the rarest of story, the truth of truth, and the only one with knowledge of it alive was him, Bilbo Gamgee, unremarkable son of Samwise the Brave.

So one morning, as the last of winter frost melt under the burning and radiant sun, Bilbo Gamgee left letters in his kitchen, and set out to the East, where the Lonely Mountains await, where the Heart of the Mountain lay, where the heart of Bilbo Baggins rested for the last time.

XXX

Bilbo was a queer hobbit, by Shire’s standard. Often, as a child, he wandered to the rivers and the Old Forest. His father never tried to talk him out of it, and in little Bilbo’s mind, that was as good as an approval from the Valar themselves. By the riverbank, he would be knee-deep into the water. In the Old Forest, he ran and circled the trees and whispered secrets into their barks and roots. And if sometimes, he heard a voice as ancient and powerful as time itself…well, Bilbo didn’t see how that was anybody’s business but his.

Certainly not the Thain’s or the Master of Brandybuck’s, thank you very much. 

Bilbo learnt his letters faster than his siblings, both Westron and Sindarin. The latter was mostly self-learnt, of course, with various texts and instructions Bilbo Baggins left in his office. The only one who seemed to be remotely interested in the Elvish letters amongst his many siblings was Elanor, but even that was only on good days. She learnt out of necessity to serve the Queen Arwen, who was always more than happy to help them with their Sindarin.

When Bilbo was fifteen, he could speak fluent Sindarin and a little bit of Quenya. And it was with this childish determination and arrogance that he set out to the woods, searching for wood Elves that may shed some light about the blue book he found two years earlier. Bilbo knew dwarves, particularly the ones from Ered Luin or Erebor, would be a better option. But he was young and unchallenged, small and weak. 

He never found any elves.

As Bilbo grew older, he retreated more and more into his own shell. The Elvish dagger he owned was polished diligently every evening. He poured over maps of Middle Earth. Every book in his meager library told stories of far distant lands. Yes, Bilbo was a very queer hobbit indeed, so much like his namesake, the Mad Bilbo Baggins.

Samwise saw all of this and sat back and laughed until his old lungs could not take it. 

XXX

The year was 1480 by Shire reckoning. Bilbo Gamgee was three and forty, not so young by Hobbit’s standard, and he was very angry.

All children of Samwise are considered to be fair by most folk, more so his firstborn, known as Elanor the Fair. As such, there was no shortage of courting offers and marriage proposals being sent to the family. But the third time someone tried to force himself on him when they could not understand a simple no and an Elvish dagger up their nose, well, Bilbo was quite fed up, especially when his father, who was not getting any younger seemed to be quite taken by the newest suitor.

So he stormed out of the house, took a pony (and scandalized half the Shire who was still not on term with the adventuring the Gamgee family was very fond of), and rode out of Hobbiton and to the Buckland. His uncle Merry would take him in for the time being, until his father came limping and apologizing for not believing that that leech Chubbs had tried to corner Bilbo while he was in the privacy of his reading room.

Bilbo would give him two days.

He did not go immediately to the Brandybuck Hall, but instead he went into the Old Forest.

“Good for nothing, son of an orc!” Bilbo kicked a stone angrily, his traveling cloak swishing behind him. Then, he sighed and slumped against the tree. He looked up at the sky, the sun burning ever bright and unfailing. There was a hum against his back from the old tree behind him, and Bilbo closed his eyes, soothed by the old voice that spoke of words he could never discern ever since he was a child. The trees here were very old, so old that they could not move and speak to each other, except the hum that always lulled Bilbo to sleep.

Bilbo knew the trees were very in tuned with his emotion, and as such, he tried not to think of the problem at home and focused on the good things around him. The chirping of the birds, the gentle brush of the wind, and the…blow of smoke on his face?

Bilbo opened his eyes, and saw the face of an old bearded man with bird pooping on the side of his face. And the man was very, very close.

Quite understandably, Bilbo shrieked, scared the birds away, and scooted as far as he can from the man in brown robes and queer hat.

“Very curious,” said the fellow. “The trees here are very old, and they should be asleep. But they’re aware of what’s happening around them. They’re not awake, no, but they’re on the edge of doing so. Tell me boy, who and what are you?”

Bilbo gaped at the wizard (for what else could he be?) and tried to remember which one he was.

Radagast.

“I’m Bilbo, Bilbo G–“

“Bilbo!” the wizard interrupted, quite rudely so. He knelt down and there was light in his eyes that was not there previously. “Not the Bilbo Baggins! Good gracious, how long has it been? I remember you as that Halfling who followed that Thorin fellow and Gandalf around. Yes, yes, but I remember you have brown hair, and my, don’t you look younger?”

Bilbo swallowed. “I’m not Bilbo Baggins. That’s my father’s old master. My name is Bilbo Gamgee, son of Samwise.” Using the father card seemed underhanded, but Bilbo was not going to be mistaken as a dead hobbit.

“Bilbo Gamgee?” Radagast said. “And who is Samwise? No, never mind. You’re not Bilbo Baggins, you say. So where is that fellow?”

“Dead,” Bilbo answered before he coughed and tried again. “He passed over the Sea eight and fifty years ago. And he was very old then. I imagine he’s passed on now.”

“Old?” Radagast seemed confused. “No, I distinctly remember it was…it was…oh, confound it! It was a long time ago, then. What happened to that dwarf of his? The lifespan of hobbits and dwarves are different.”

“Which…dwarf?”

“Why, Thorin Oakenshield, of course!” Radagast said, as if it were obvious.

“He died in the Battle of the Five Armies more than a hundred years ago.” Add eight and thirty to that number, give or take.

Radagast looked utterly flummoxed, and Bilbo involuntarily remembered the other Bilbo’s description of this one particular wizard. Not quite on the right side, Samwise had read, chuckling under his breathe. There was bird pooping on his head, his robes are very disorganized and he looked very lost, as if he could not remember when to take a wash or the last time he had meals. 

How could someone be that absent-minded? His memories went all the way back more than a century ago. But Bilbo supposed when you’ve lived as long as time itself, it had got to excuse you for several quirks. Valar knew he could not quite remember the last time he had been this bewildered…and excited.

When Radagast did not make any move, Bilbo stood up and straightened his clothes. “So, what were you doing around here?”

The wizard looked up at him, before slowly standing up by the help of his staff. “The trees called me here. The forest is weeping, so much anguish for something that should not be aware or conscious.” He gave Bilbo a glance that said this had his name all over it. 

“Is there something in your heart, lad?”

Bilbo tried not to let his distress shown on his face, but for a split second, he failed and that was all Radagast needed.

“The East calls for your heart,” said the wizard, nodding sagely to himself.

Bilbo stared at the wizard. “What?”

“You’re sick, lad,” scoffed Radagast. “Sick for something that lies in the East. You do not belong in the rolling hills and peaceful lands. You crave for adventure, much like that Bilbo Baggins fellow. Oh, how his heart sung mightily for it. I remember it clearly. It was the voice of a lion. A lionheart, some would call it. He certainly has the courage of one.”

Bilbo did not know what a lion was, but Radagast spoke even more clearly than almost the entire Shire did all his life about Bilbo Baggins. Even his father, bless him, did not seem to know about that little bit of Bilbo Baggins. So Bilbo did not care about what a lion was, no, he wanted Radagast to keep talking. Bilbo Baggins had been a mere mythical figure all his life. The Lady Arwen had fond memories of him, but that was after the adventure. Nobody remembered Bilbo before and during the adventure. Nobody, except the dwarves that had been in the company of Thorin Oakenshield, and quite clearly now, Radagast the Brown.

“Can you tell me about him?”

Radagast stared at him, and something in his eyes made Bilbo shivered, despite the fact that it was quite a sunny afternoon and he still had his traveling cloak on.

“I couldn’t, even if I want to,” said Radagast. “I did not know him as well as Gandalf did.”

The wave of disappointment came crashing in unexpectedly, though Bilbo should have known. Of course, what a fool he had been. Radagast had been mentioned scarcely in the book. There was no way he could have fulfilled what Bilbo wanted.

“But,” there was a twinkle in Radagast’s eyes. “I can take you to where he left his marks. It will be quite an adventure for you, and a most refreshing exercise for me.”

XXX

Bilbo did not agree immediately. His mother had been sick for weeks and she never made any improvement. His father was getting slow, and there was that problem of marriage that half that Shire had been forcing on his ever since he came of age. Bilbo bade Radagast a regretful farewell, to which Radagast replied with an enthusiastic invitation to send him a letter should he ever change his mind. Bilbo watched him trotted away with heavy heart, and he returned to Bag End without stopping by in Brandybuck Hall.

Upon his return, Samwise sat him down and told him of his decision.

“I won’t force you, my boy,” said Samwise wearily. “I am old now, and my mind is not as sharp as it used to be, not that it was ever sharp, mind you.” He chuckled. “It is your heart and future at stake. I will not impose on you any longer.”

“Da,” Bilbo slid away from his chair and sat beside Samwise’s knees, resting his palms on the shrunken kneecap. “You would never impose on me. I admit, this courting business is rather tiring, but I know you mean well for me. So thank you, for letting me decide my own future.”

Samwise looked at him fondly with a smile. Bilbo returned it, his heart lighter and happier.

“I will sail to the Undying Land,” Samwise said, unexpectedly.

Bilbo pulled back. “What?”

Samwise sighed, his hand rubbing at an invisible wound on his chest. “The Ring was never kind, Bilbo. I held it for a short moment and it never let go. It is a wonder how Mister Frodo and Mister Bilbo could stand it for years. Decades, even! I am not as strong as them. The only reason I had not sailed after them was your mother and you, my children. But it is getting heavier. Rosie is not getting better, and I fear, her time is not long.”

That night, Bilbo wrote Radagast a letter and waited.

XXX

Radagast looked as he did two years ago, while Bilbo had lost weight due to his preparation. 

Their agreed meeting point was the Trollshaw, where Radagast made an impromptu camp and fire around what Bilbo guessed was where half the Company had been almost roasted as dinner. The large stone figures and the irony of the situation made Bilbo laughed upon his arrival. Radagast grabbed his staff and almost hit Bilbo with it.

“Bilbo!” he said excitedly, before it turned into irritation. “Do not startle me, you foolish boy! Do you not know what a wizard is capable of? I could have turned you into something unnatural!”

“My apologies,” Bilbo said, still coughing out the remainder of his amusement.

“Well, sit down and have your lunch.” Radagast pushed a plateful of smoked meat and sausages to his hand.

It was a very filling lunch, and Bilbo supposed he could forgo dinner altogether and wait for supper instead. He doubted it would be much trouble to convince Radagast of that. Bilbo spent his afternoon cuddling and scratching Radagast’s oversized rabbits. When he asked if Radagast brought them for meals, Radagast sputtered in fury and the rabbits screeched in panic and tapped their feet to the ground in irritation.

Before the sun set, Radagast brought him down to the cave where Gandalf found Bilbo Sting. Radagast handed him a pouch and told him to fill it with the gold coins while the wizard wondered off to the other side of the cave. When they were back to the camp, Radagast handed him a sword.

“It’s small, half your size. I should think it won’t give you any trouble to use it.”

Bilbo thought back of Sting and how legendary it became in the hand of Bilbo and Frodo Baggins. His Elvish dagger seemed rather small compared to that ‘letter-opener.’ Bilbo took the sword and unsheathed it, immediately recognizing the Elvish mark and elegant craftsmanship.

Sting was a small sword with swirl etched on its blade. This sword looked more menacing than it ever did. It ended upward, giving it a more threatening and somehow more elegant look. The polished wooden handle fit perfectly into Bilbo’s grip, better than his dagger did, and Bilbo had practiced with it for years. The blade was wider than Sting, a tad longer and the marks were much more intricate. Bilbo sliced the air to test it, and was surprised by the easy course the blade took by his command.

“That should do it,” Radagast muttered.

“Thank you,” Bilbo said sincerely.

XXX

When Thorin became King Under the Mountain, it was accompanied by grief and sorrow. There was no fanfare and festivities, only tears and blood as he said his oath and the stained crown bestowed upon him. War was knocking on their doorstep, there were far too many deaths, and the world was ending. But dwarrows were nothing if not obstinate. 

Thorin took the mantle, charged into the battle with King Bard II, and came out victorious. It was as legendary as his namesake's last battle, but the reason Thorin Oakenshield's had not been as glorious as it was supposed to be was only whispered behind the closed doors of the royal family.

King Thorin Oakenshield, second only to Durin himself in the people’s mind, the Beggar King who snatched a kingdom from under Smaug’s nose itself and battled Azog the Defiler to death, the rightful King Under the Mountain who perished before he could see the kingdom he’d died for prospered under his rule.

Dwarves coveted good stories as much as they coveted their dwarrowdams, but that was not all there to Thorin Oakenshield’s story.

The truth was much uglier, much hurtful. Ori, son of Mori wrote all of it, not a single word was minced. The brutal truths of the madness of the Lines of Durin were written plainly for anyone to read. Dáin Ironfoot read the madness of Thorin Oakenshield who dangled his One and threatened to chuck him down like a rag and ordered for the chronicle to be sealed inside a vault.

There was nothing more shameful than letting greed overpowered your senses and ruled you over that you cannot recognize your One, the greatest gift Mahal ever gave to dwarves. The only equivalent to it was the murder of one’s kin. So great was the shame of Thorin, styled Oakenshield, that it became the greatest secret known only to the royal family and former members of Thorin’s Company.

Thorin read the chronicle after the death of his wife; finally had courage to open it. Theirs was an arranged marriage. Thorin had been of marriage age for decades and still there was no sign of him courting anyone. Encouraged by his family and the council, he took the one dwarrowdam that had no calling towards her One and married her to produce one heir for the throne of Erebor.

And it was magnificent. Durin VII was born, and it was the greatest joy of Durin’s folk. Thorin’s only one regret had been his father was not there to look upon his grandson. Durin was Thorin’s greatest treasure, his son who was solemn upon birth with a smile that told more than he said. Thorin loved his son, but there was an emptiness in his heart that never go away. The Longing started almost half a decade ago, almost at the same time when he met his wife, ten years after the Battle of Erebor.

He had often thought that she must be his One, even if he was not hers, but something in him cried and howled whenever he looked at his wife with the thought. He had loved his wife, but it was more of a love that one forged under false assumption. Thorin had thought it was enough. It was not.

“Adad.”

Thorin opened a bleary eye and it rested upon his son’s worried visage.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, but Durin was not convinced. That was his son, far wiser beyond his age and a compassionate heart that knew no boundary.

“Adad, you’ve been spacing out more as of late. Is there something in your mind?”

Oh, how was he supposed to explain to his son that his heart had been tugging endlessly at the string that he thought was void before? How was he supposed to explain that he found himself thinking of going West more and more often? That he’d more than once had to restrain himself from hopping onto a pony and find the one person Mahal had created just for him?

“It’s nothing,” he said, giving Durin a smile to soothe the youth. Durin gave him a solemn nod and turned to read the tome in his hands. Thorin had been surprised when Durin came up to him earlier that day, requesting to read the adventure of Thorin Oakenshield, the true one, not the sugar-coated version they fed the world with. How Durin knew about it was beyond Thorin, but he would never question his son, especially when he looked at him with those solemn eyes.

“I remember,” Durin suddenly said, eyes still on the book in his lap. “I remember a face as fair as the jewels hewn from the mountain, hands so soft but unwaveringly strong, and a voice like the first song of the spring. She was my One. Where is she, adad? Why am I alone in this world?”

Thorin closed his eyes, feeling a rush of pain for his son. “She’s waiting for you to come to her.”

Durin’s eyes were full of hurt, and they seek Thorin’s almost in desperation. “When, adad? How long do I have to wait?”

Until the end of time, Thorin didn’t say. Until the end of time.

XXX

In Erebor, page 126 | The Chronicle of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield's Journey to Erebor | By Ori, son of Mori

Recovering from the gold-madness was not an experience I would like to repeat for all the mithril in the world. When I realized days had passed instead of hours like the sickness led all of us to believe, it felt like being doused with cold water. It started as I watched Bilbo Baggins, loyal and steadfast Bilbo, admitted to being the one who took the Arkenstone and gave it to Thranduil and Bard. For a moment I was enraged. How dare this thief took what is rightfully ours! How dare he betray whom he had sworn loyalty to! How dare he betray his King and One, Thorin Oakenshield!

Those thoughts vanished and when Thorin shook him and hung him from the battlement, cold enveloped my tired body and I finally remembered who I was and what we have done.

“You miserable hobbit! You undersized-burglar!” Thorin cried.

Bilbo was terrified, but not of being thrown down. He looked into Thorin’s eyes and his grief was clear to anyone who was not deep in the madness. I saw Dwalin’s eyes cleared, and then my brothers, and one by one, the company came to themselves. Kíli and Fíli looked the worst of them, and I could not, for the life of me, bring myself to entertain the thought of being in their boots.

Watching Thorin now, threatening the life of his One, dread unlike any other I have ever felt washed over me. No sin greater than this could be committed, and I thought what would become of Thorin Oakenshield now?

Gandalf could not have come sooner. I thanked Mahal over and over again, for sparing me the experience of witnessing my king kill his One and the death of the greatest friend I have ever made.

As Bilbo disappeared behind Gandalf’s cloak, his small form shivering, I looked into Thorin’s eyes. It was madness, written all over his face and clouding his eyes. He turned from the army of elves and went back to his Mahal-forsaken gold, not a thought of grief present on his face for what he just did. 

This was not Thorin Oakenshield.

The sun had set. Most of the company is gathered in one of the usable rooms far away from the treasury. Kíli is crying, and Fíli looks like he’s only holding himself together for his brother. Dwalin is gone. As is Nori. Bofur is silent. Bombur is crying loudly into his hands, Bifur by his side calming him down. Balin and Dori are talking, and Dwalin’s brother looks so weary it was a miracle he had not fallen down yet. Glóin and Óin are arguing loudly outside the room.

There is no atonement for it. Thorin has lost his honor and drove his One away. By law he should be banished. But most of us are not concerned of that yet. We are all feeling guilty for letting the madness took us over. Bilbo is now out of our reach, with the elves and men and wizard. 

I know he would have forgiven us by now. His kind and large heart would never hold it against us. That Child of the Kindly West deserves every gem and gold in this world and more. That Thorin had given him a kingly gift in the form of the only mithril mail in the mountain was only a drop in the ocean. I will part with my share of the treasure if he just asks right at this moment, but I know there is not a sliver of greed in his heart. How had we not seen it sooner that Bilbo Baggins is the true treasure this adventure has to offer?

And now Thorin Oakenshield has lost him. I hope, for his sake, that he will not remember any of this. All the treasure in the world will not be able to tempt me even for a moment to exchange his place with me.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello. This is my second posted Hobbit work and I hope you liked it. I may continue this if it has good response. The pairing of Bilbo Gamgee/Thorin Stonehelm has fascinated me for a long time and this fic has been in progress for months and I just got the guts to post it now. I tried to make it as good as I can, and I know it can be fixed, but I'm too lazy for it now. Drop a comment and I'll see you on the next chapter.


End file.
